


"My Wolf-Man"

by write_light



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Gift Fic, Humans vs. Werewolves, M/M, Magic, Meant To Be, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: Forest and castle, wolf and man, a vengeful spirit and true love, so much misfortune and so many masks. And a tray full of desserts.  How do happy endings work?  Prince Stiles, a human; Derek Hale, a werewolf; Talia & the ghost of Derek's father; Uncle Peter and Evil Aunt Kate; Stiles' parents, the king and queen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thealphasspark](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thealphasspark).



> Warnings: Angst, and lots of it, and a bit of Stiles being Stiles to lighten things. Never has dessert been so important, but you'll have to cry a bit first. Cruel abuse, prejudice, violent acts. A fic to meet my giftee's requests for royalty/fairytale au, werewolf!Derek, wolves as underclass/outsiders, and 'as angst-filled as possible'.
> 
> Special thanks to [synoaponga](http://synoaponga.tumblr.com/), [benaya-trash](http://benaya-trash.tumblr.com/), and **afg1** for their edits and advice.

#### There was once a young boy

whose first misfortune was to be born a wolf-man in a kingdom that feared its wolves. Tragedies too numerous to count followed close on his heels – his father killed when he was three, the passing of his mother not long after, evil and greedy relatives who took him in but took everything from him. But of all this bad luck, the choice his heart made was the worst luck of all. The prince, if he were telling this story, would say that he was the clear choice and not bad luck at all, but a rollicking adventure, blood-drenched and romantic. _Best not to let the prince near the pen and ink._

***

When Derek turned 13, his loving and beloved mother Talia faded from life in the short time it took the leaves to turn to gold. She was buried with her husband at the border between their land and the forest, where wolves ran wild. So unexpected was her passing that there was no plan for who should care for Derek, or the estate, but into that gap in the laws slithered Talia's brother Peter, claiming house and lands for himself and his cruel wife Katherine.

Derek mourned his mother and her good heart, and remembered how Peter had looked through him at every visit, indifferent and uncaring. Even now, as Peter held out his arms to embrace his orphaned nephew, he smiled at his wife's delight as she tore out the furnishings Talia had treasured. He held Derek tight as she made the house hers.

Kate had little interest in a son, let alone an adopted wolf-son, so she set about finding ways to be rid of him. She began by banishing the wolf in him, forbidding him ever to change his face, even half way – "even one claw and you will suffer."

For years, he accepted her torments, but in his heart, he remembered the words his mother had taught him: "The wolf in you is neither your true face, nor a mask, for you are both wolf and man. You must be both." In time, it became an anchor for him through years of pain – "wolf, man, both."

Derek repeated this to himself as the wolf grew stronger in him, but he followed the rule his aunt laid out. After Peter died unexpectedly, Kate gave her ward no peace but instead sought to keep his inheritance from him while blaming him anew for her exclusion from the castle and court.

"If only you could freeze your human face in place, homely as it is – then I would be at the queen's side as I should be. But a wolf is a wolf and I cannot lift that mark from my name. Run to your forest and howl at your moon."

And Derek did run. He paused only once, in the shadow of the tall pine trees where his mother lay buried deep beneath the soft russet carpet of pine needles. "Father, I remember your eyes, glowing red. If I could flash my eyes at her, I would frighten Aunt Katherine to death."

Derek swung his neck and felt the fangs fall into place in his jaw. His claws emerged, curved and razor sharp. He loped west, far into the tree-covered hills, and didn't return until the moon set near dawn.

Behind him on his mother's grave stood something dark and yet faintly luminous, the form of a wolf, imperceptible in the purple of late twilight.

Derek grew strong and tall, despite Kate's relentless, cutting tongue. He was called handsome by those who didn't know he was a wolf, but their praise only made the human face feel even more like a mask. The kingdom grew only slightly more welcoming of wolves with the years, but less and less tolerant of those wolves who could wear a human face, like Derek.

 

***

FIRST DAY

Derek ran often in the forest, and found work there as a youth among the wolf-men who lived among the tall trees. One fateful week It happened that his task (because he was the best woodcutter the foresters had ever found) was to cut down the ten tallest, straightest trees, strip and polish their trunks and see them delivered to the castle to hold up the king's ten great celebration tents. The prince's betrothal nights meant rare business for the werewolves, but this was an old custom and one not easily discarded. The wolves, though, were forbidden from entering the castle to bring the trees to the king.

On the day the tent poles were delivered, wishing to see the castle of his king for himself, Derek transformed from wolf-man into man, dark hair and beard hinting at what no one would believe – a wolf inside the castle walls. And because it could not be possible, they did not notice him as he rode along with the fresh-hewn trees into the courtyard, eyes wide at the magnificence of it all.

In the castle tower, the young Prince Stiles had studied history and been taught the new faith of his mother. He read about the arrival of the wolves, and the curse laid upon those who mixed blood with them. He questioned the fear of wolves and was not struck for this heresy because he was a prince royal and the only heir. The men of the faith told him only stories of violence and fear and demanded he repeat the words of the curse, but Prince Stiles grew impatient with them; today he threw them all out.

"Stiles, my dearest one," said his mother, from the doorway. She was sweet as sugar but sour within and her words were the same. Stiles refused to look at her.

"You cannot question this world you rule. Wolfblood is a failing, a sad, monstrous thing that even the wolves are ashamed to reveal-"

"Because we tell them it is shameful?" he interrupted. "The world I will rule is changing. Wolf-men are not to be feared."

"You could love another man and I would not be ashamed. But you could choose the most beautiful perfect wife, and if she were a wolf, I would throw her in the deepest cellar, or – or banish her." The queen's voice shook, and her thin, pale hands clenched.

"With a wolf-man I would not mix blood – would you be ashamed then?" Stiles taunted her.

The idea stuck in his mind and he wanted to think more about it, without his mother's glare on him.

Stiles ignored her anger and looked out the window at the preparations for the betrothal balls, every tent shining white, ready to be stretched across the tall poles, the small lanterns strung along every edge, waiting to cast their warm light on the hundred and one guests.

***

Stiles, ears still ringing from the strength with which his mother had slammed the door as she left, stared down from his balcony at the wagons bearing the ten massive poles. There was a man in the back, riding atop the tree trunks. Stiles watched as he leaped easily to the ground and landed with grace. This man looked around at everything with great interest, and his eyes moved up the tower until Stiles felt them reach him, and he held his breath. The man in the courtyard stared at him, then continued to look around.

Derek found himself in a sea of white, the great tents stretched out end to end the length of the grand courtyard, and so many strands of lights he'd never seen in his life. Banners adorned with the royal silver "S" flapped in the crisp air. He was fairly certain he'd just caught sight of Prince Stiles, and avoided looking up.

"Who are you?" Stiles said softly, and Derek's face turned back up to him, finding him instantly.

A man from the forest was almost certainly a wolf, but this man looked like a mere man. A strong, muscular man with a powerful jaw under his short-cropped beard, but still, no savage claws, no wild fangs dripping blood, Stiles thought. He observed intently from the balcony as the trees were unloaded, and watched with a pang as the tall man made to climb aboard the wagon after the last tree was placed.

Stiles ran down the stairs of the tower, looking out each window as he passed. The man was still staring wide-eyed at the wealth and ornament of the castle around him.

Halfway down, Stiles saw him leap back up on the wagon and crouch out of sight. He ran faster, long legs taking two and three stairs at a time as courtiers darted out of his way.

He tumbled into the courtyard only to find no wolf-man and no wagon. The gates swung shut as he watched.

"Sire?" one of the men asked.

"I’m here to inspect the tent poles. I have at least a dozen questions about their origin."

***

"The king is setting up tents for the betrothal nights of the prince," Derek made the mistake of blurting out at dinner.

Kate ignored him most days, but she could not help taking particular pleasure in ridiculing what she sensed in his tone.

"And did they use the logs you cut down? What an honor!" she laughed. "How your mother could mate with a wolf – it is the reason we are still uninvited after all these years, even now she's long dead. How unfortunate never to see them put to use, never to see the castle or the prince – where they would imprison you, if not worse."

"I did see them" Derek started, and then regretted opening the subject at all.

"You claim to have seen the preparations with your own eyes? You could perhaps attend on the second night when masks are worn, but – no," she said slowly, enjoying this small vengeance. "No mask could cover your ugliness, those ears, the frightful teeth…" she trailed off in disgust.

"Which I do not show you, ever," Derek said calmly.

Derek lowered his head and waited for worse, sure it would come, surprised by its speed.

"Perhaps you could go on the first night, with this face you show me now, glaring under those brows. Alas, they despise wolves in human form most of all," she smiled coldly.

Derek wished for the courage to show that wolf face to her in his own home, but her first rule – no wolves or wolf-men, ever – was law until he came of age.

A rap at the door ended their quarrel for that night. Derek answered it, returning to the dining room with a gold-trimmed calling card.

"You can go," he stuttered, hoping the news would please her.

"What? Give me that!" Her face was fiercer than ever as she snatched the invitation from his hand and read it. Her turn of good fortune set loose years of pent-up anger. "You will not answer the door any more. You will not show your face outside this house for the next three days, not once, for they have forgotten your mother's sins. I am going to the ball!"

***

SECOND DAY

Kate watched impatiently for the carriage sent to deliver her to the first of the two great dances at which Prince Stiles would choose a wife, or if need be, a husband until a wife could be found later.

When she stepped into that royal carriage she aimed a smirk at the upper windows where she knew Derek would be watching. On the table in the great hall was a list of chores set to keep him busy for both nights (and the days that followed) until the betrothal balls were past.

As the carriage vanished into the dark, leaving him behind, Derek cried. He had cried when his mother died, but never since, not when Kate cut into him, nor on any of the many lonely days in the forest and nights in a cold bed under the roof.

Derek remembered the towers of the castle, and the strings of lights that would soon fill the night, and the excitement with which people spoke about Prince Stiles. He remembered that man on the balcony, the one who watched him and wondered aloud "Who are you?" so softly that only Derek heard it. Derek blushed for allowing his wolf-ears to eavesdrop on his prince.

He went to Talia's grave that night and sat by the low headstone, talking to his mother about the life he'd endured and the hard times wolves still faced. He spoke about the castle he'd seen, and the ball that was underway.

"They have tents as tall as the trees in the forest, lit like the starry skies of summer. You would love it, mother."

He said nothing of the dark-haired young man on the balcony; he knew not what to say of him, a man who watched him back, a prince and future king who hadn't raised the alarm. What could he say to such a man?

In the full dark of night, he fell silent; laying his head on the ground by her headstone he wept again and wished to return, just once, to the ball. The tears slipped from his cheek onto the brown winter grass, sliding into the soil over the grave.

***

"You look wonderful, my son, handsome as ever, sure to catch the eye of many ladies tonight," said the king, Stiles' father, a kindly man.

"If he can wipe the look of indifference from his face," his mother added, still sour.

"There are a few men he can choose from, I made sure," his father said, suddenly worried.

In the awkward discussion over grandchildren that followed, Stiles slipped away from his parents and went as quickly as he could to the tents, where he wandered through the empty, waiting spaces. He knew the poles were pines, the tallest, hewn by hand and stripped of bark, polished smooth. He'd learned, too, that such a gift from the forest was certainly a gift from wolves, and wondered that they held so little animosity for him after decades of distrust and mistreatment.

"And the people that came today-" he'd asked the workers, breathless after running full speed down the tower stairs. "Were they wolves?"

"Not allowed. We pick the trees up from their workshop, but they never come. It's forbidden, as you know. And we have work to do, as you know, before you can marry, your highness."

The man bowed deeply with the strand of lights in one hand, waiting as politely as he could for his prince to leave.

"I'm sorry to keep you from it," Stiles said quietly and left.

As he had on the day the man on the truck had visited, Stiles moved again from tent to tent, running his hand over each tree trunk, wondering if the smooth surface was the handiwork of that same man. The fresh-cut trees still perfumed the air around them with a rich, resinous smell and Stiles imagined that was how the man from the truck would be, filling his senses up. The smell remained on his hands, and he brought them close to his face that evening even as he danced, taking in the scent again and again.

***

Derek woke in the night, cold on the grass of the grave, but not alone. He sensed someone was with him. A soft purple light, so dim it tricked the eye, gathered in the air in front of Derek.

"Mother?"

"Not your mother, no. But I have a gift that may stop your tears."

"Who-?"

"Dry them, and you might recognize me."

Derek blinked and the purplish glow, near invisible even in the dark of night, took the shape of a wolf, then a wolf-man, crouched before him.

"Who are you?" Derek said, backing away slowly as the man stood.

"Did Talia never speak of me? Of how much I loved her?"

"She told me my father died, so you cannot be him."

"I can and I am," said the dark wolf-man. "And yet your tears reached me. Why now and not in all these long years?"

"I want to see the castle," Derek began, not knowing what he asked.

"The castle?" It burst from his father's mouth like poison spat out. "They cursed us, deep into our very blood and I cursed them back even as I burned, as the forest burned."

"I had no idea-"

"And you have no place there."

"The prince did not curse you, or me."

"That old witch queen lived the ancient magic, then turned her back on it, on every sacred tree in her forests – on _us_ ," he gestured to both himself and Derek. "You would trust her offspring-"

"I would still go."

"Then go, play at being a part of that world for a few hours," said the werewolf, disdain and anger all through his voice. "Walk in their world with that mask you have on and see the masks they wear. But do not let the usurpers of this land catch sight of your other face, and do not lose your heart to one of them, or you will lose your life as well, that is certain."

"I will not lose my heart, I promise, because I have no heart for anyone. But I also have no entry."

"You are a wolf, and there are no gates we cannot pass."

His father's form, face obscured as the moon rose behind him, reached out a clawed hand.

"Cast off that mask and run with me, Derek."

The claw tips caught the silver moonlight.

***

A hundred and one guests spread through the ten rooms, under the dancing lights of the wedding tents. The people were festive and happy, especially the women Stiles paid attention to. These few chosen by the prince would return the next night to one tent to win his heart, they hoped.

Stiles danced with them, a quick turn around the room, and then bowed in the showiest of ways before moving on. If anyone had thought to look at him as something other than a prize, they would have seen how his hand touched his face again and again, nervously, and how he leaned against the tent pole between every dance, surveying the room but never smiling.

He was dismally unhappy but at what he could not say. The betrothal balls were long-planned, but his heart was not ready. He wondered about wolves and was scolded for it; he defended them and was lectured on his duties as a prince. The wolves and the even worse "masked ones" who walked as men were a part of his kingdom but not one he would be allowed to care about.

***

"I cannot enter as a man without name or invitation, and I cannot enter as a wolf-man or risk imprisonment or worse."

Derek paced the road leading to the castle, knowing he had no way in. No ticket, no money, and now, no good shoes – his were caked in fresh mud. He dared not approach the castle gates.

"Then do as I do, son," said the shadowy wolf beside him. "Your tears have roused me, so let me grant your wish."

The wolf ran along the side of the castle and Derek followed.

"Do as I do," said the wolf again.

Derek shifted.

"All the way. Shed your human side."

"I can't. I don't know how," Derek growled.

"Who's there?" called a voice from near the castle wall and Derek slid back into human form.

"I am late for the ball," he said, ignoring the pain as his body reshaped itself.

A small woman peered around an even smaller door.

"Late and stupid – and filthy, from the looks of it. Where's your friend?"

The shadow wolf had melted back into the black shade that the risen moon threw across the grounds.

"I am alone."

"You were talking to someone."

"I fear the dark so I talk for company," Derek lied.

"They must be supremely confident the Prince will find a wife if you're the best alternative they have. Come in then."

"I've– lost my invitation," Derek lied again, wondering at his sudden, easy dishonesty.

"And why am I not surprised? Keep your wolf-self well hidden."

Derek froze at this, realizing he was discovered.

"It's not _my_ religion, son," the little woman said, seeing the look on his face. "If you're stupid enough to marry that dolt of a Prince, they all deserve the shock when they find out."

"I'll be killed."

"And who told you that lie?"

"My – my aunt," Derek admitted.

"Your poor family, to have _two_ idiots in it. You'll make fine in-laws for these royals, that's for sure. Come inside – we'll get you better clothes. Too polite by half, you are."

***

In the last tent of the evening, Stiles was cornered by five young women of the realm, each attempting to entice him – each oblivious to their failure. He was relieved when a sixth woman, older than the others by more than a few years, shoved them aside to step in front and curtsy.

"Your highness. I am Katherine."

"No, not her," whispered his father and steered Stiles quickly away toward the center post where he could regroup.

"Thank you, father."

"Here, eat something, dessert is just coming out."

"I've eaten nine tents' worth already," Stiles protested.

"Nibble. On whatever is presented."

***

"These are better clothes?" Derek asked in confusion as he was handed a white shirt and long apron.

"We're in the kitchens, not the King's private chamber, and you owe me this favor. Besides, if you're not already in the tents, it's too late for Prince Stiles to pick you," she snapped. "Put these on, take up that food tray, and move out – time for dessert."

Derek wiped the mud from his shoes as best he could, and scrambled to get the shirt onto his large frame. He covered his pants and all but the tips of his boots with the long apron and picked up the dessert tray.

The tent was dazzling after the dim kitchen, but the smell of pine made him feel momentarily at ease. Ahead of him at the center was the man from the tower balcony, his own height, but a bit younger, with a queasy look on his face.

"Come this way," said an older man who Derek knew full well to be the king, gesturing him toward the man leaning against the pole.

"SIre, I-"

They reached him before Derek could complain further, and how could one complain to the King?

"Here, son, nibble," said the King to Stiles and gestured in Derek's general direction.

Stiles turned pale at the sight of so many rich, heavy desserts; he didn't even notice the man carrying them.

"Do these have a name?" he asked finally.

"Derek," blurted Derek, then stared intently down at the desserts and thrust them forward, no longer able to make eye contact.

Stiles' eyes flicked from the tarts up to Derek's face, and stayed there, taking in his features and his comical embarrassment. He started laughing.

"I'm supposed to nibble on whatever is presented," he whispered to Derek, loud enough for his father to hear as he left.

Derek blushed deeply at his mistake.

"Your highness, I'm sorry, I am not often here. I mean, I'm in the forest."

"Are you now? Are you a wolf?" he asked, in a quieter voice. "Your cheeks are as red as their eyes are said to be."

"No! I-"

At that moment, Derek's averted eyes caught sight of his aunt Katherine heading his way. She'd seen him.

"Forgive me your highness," he whispered, "she must not find me here." He laid the entire tray in Stiles' hands before vanishing back into the kitchen.

***

Derek ran through the vast, echoing kitchens, dodging people as he pulled his apron off and looked for the door he'd come in through. It was smaller than he remembered and he ducked through it into the black of night, running through the royal gardens. He snagged himself on rose thorns and his wolf side came out.

He made it home in no time at all, and his aunt, not about to leave her first royal party in 15 years, found no evidence of his crimes when she returned well past midnight. Derek was asleep in the roof-space and she wouldn't go up there, not even to accuse him, but she knew what she'd seen.

***

"Who was the man carrying this tray?" Stiles asked every member of the kitchen staff, but they were unable to tell him and instead kept trying to take the tray from their prince, but he would have none of it.

"Enough desserts for you! Have you chosen your tenth girl, or not?" his mother said through a fixed smile, dragging him by the arm back toward the tent pole without appearing to drag him at all. "Or will you ruin everything by telling me you want some kitchen worker?" A kitchen worker lifted the tray from Stiles' hand and vanished into the back.

"He was a wolf, I'm sure of it, mother."

"I am not an old woman, but you will make me one with these shows of poor wit," she hissed, loud enough only for Stiles to hear. "Choose!"

***

Stiles chose as best he could.

The sharp-faced woman with pale-gold hair who'd stormed toward Derek as he held the tray was still there, watching Stiles closely.

 _Not her – she made Derek disappear_.

"The long-haired girl with light green eyes was fun to talk to, if fun is possible on this night."

_The man with the desserts was fun. But what could scare a wolf?_

He looked again at the odd woman and wondered why she cared about his kitchen staff so much.

_Perhaps she is devout. But no wolf could be employed here. How did he get in?_

"Make your choice, son," his mother said, leaning in to his ear.

Stiles had already made his choice – he would find out what wolf-man dared to walk into his betrothal ball and serve him an entire tray of desserts.

"She will be the last," he said, pointing absently at a long-haired girl he'd danced with twice.

"Excellent choice," his father replied, smiling at her. She was gracious in her good fortune and in accepting the prince's bald indifference.

***

THIRD DAY

Derek tried to keep his mind from the events of the previous night, but failed to finish the page after ten tries. _I can't return to the castle, now or ever_. He left the book on the table and took up another, with pictures of the royal family. It was an old book; Prince Stiles was a goofy, grinning toddler in his father's arms.

Derek recalled that grin – it was the same one he'd seen on the handsome prince, before he could no longer look at him. He blushed again, remembering how he'd pushed an entire tray of desserts into the prince's hands and fled. _No going back after that, either, wolf or not._

As if to emphasize this, the bolt on the attic door slid shut and the heard the lock turn.

"Aunt Kate!" he yelled, running to open it, but she'd closed it from the outside.

After avoiding him all day, she let him have a last taste of her anger.

"My first ball in 15 years!" she raged, "And there you are, the very curse on my life – I know it was you!" she added, hearing him protest.

Derek beat against the door but the bolt only trembled and the hinges held. Still, Kate flinched.

"You have forgotten among your many crimes that today is your birthday. Yes, Derek, you will be turned out. The house is mine, the land is mine, and you will have nothing. Sit and read your books before you are parted from them for good. When I return, you will be gone."

She heard him yelling and it frightened her – she could not tell pain from anger and cared not to learn the difference. But the sound of his claws on the wood gave her a taste of true fear, and she ran, locking doors behind her when she could.

The coach pulled up moments later and she fled in it, arriving at the second betrothal ball with a sheen of sweat on her face and droplets trickling cold down her back, making her twitch and shudder oddly in front of the other guests.

***

Derek burst through the attic door and made his way down halls and stairs until he was outside in the cool night air, gulping it in as he headed toward the forest. He was nearly to the tree line when the wolf materialized again, darkness on a darker background, deep and hard to focus on; he was drawn to the two red embers of its eyes.

"Father?" Derek said, skidding to a stop, his own eyes flaring yellow as he transformed.

The wolf ghost became wolf-man, too, and spoke to his son again.

"Tears one night, rage the next. What life did your mother and I leave you to?"

"Peter's wife is…" he stopped, unable to say what he felt. "She's taken the land and the house."

"Peter was a fool; your mother would agree, family or not. But will you run from your fate? You stand here as a wolf-man, near to becoming like me. Take that last step forward; stand on our grave..."

"To be dead like you, or become a wolf in body and soul?"

"I can give you a rare gift, tonight only, because it is your birthday. What do you want, son? To be a true wolf? Wish it and it is yours."

"To be free of this curse."

"There is no curse on wolves. This… we _are_ this, and we are great. That queen knew that, once," he said, bitterly. "Now I ask again, what do you want?"

"To run far from here, through the forest."

"A noble wish, but there is time enough to run in the years ahead of you. I will ask only once more, what do you _want_? Do not waste this chance."

Derek had no more wishes. He could not wish for evil to befall his aunt, no matter how he tried. He could not fight and win his property back as a wolf-man in this land.

The red-eyed shape waited, unmoving, unblinking.

"Father, I want to apologize to him – to the prince – he – he is kind." The wish came unbidden, and unexpected.

The wolf stood still and silent but his eyes glowed ever brighter.

"I'm sorry for you then, but you will learn what the prince's true face is," said the wolf-spirit, and dissolved into the dark night.

In his place on the grave lay a mask, the painted face of a handsome man with ribbons of red to tie it on, a human face to cover his pointed ears and fangs and fur from the world.

Derek picked the mask up carefully and studied it in the moonlight. It was thinnest, lightest wood, skillfully carved to fit to his face as he was now, as a werewolf. It clung to every curve and ridge like it had been molded from him, for him. It tied so easily, the ribbons seemed to tie themselves and vanish.

***

"Your task tonight-" began the minister before Stiles cut him off.

"I have no _task_! This is my wife I am choosing and she who is choosing me."

"Your parents wish only to see it-"

"To see it done and to see me married, with an heir, much as you do. Do not tell me they wish for my happiness."

"Your father does, highness," said the minister honestly.

"Yes, he does. He does," Stiles admitted softly. "One tent, ten perfect subjects of the realm…"

"Each behind a mask that their true spirit might show," the minister completed the betrothal prayer.

When the man finally left, Stiles strode out on his balcony to take deep lungfuls of crisp winter air as his heart raced in panic. _I can do this. I must do this._

Below in the courtyard, a single tent blazed with lights and the music had started already.

"I wonder what's for dessert? And who will bring it tonight? Maybe that cowardly wolf with the wonderful eyebrows."

The full moon rose over the hills in the distance and a wolf howled. Another answered. Stiles stared hard into the distance but saw nothing. Below him in the courtyard, Derek looked up, a very different Derek now, with blond curls, a dashing mustache, and red-apple cheeks.

***

The mask was a passport, certainly magical in its ability to open doors for him, to bring gracious invitations to sit and talk, to make him welcome among the courtiers and guests as an equal. It felt like he had no mask on at all.

"And you are?" said a lady in a rich golden gown, far too glamorous for her part in this evening.

He recognized his aunt immediately and froze. She took his hand, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes.

"Forgive me-," he said, sure she would recognize him.

"No need," Kate replied. "I was looking for an escort and you will do nicely."

Neither his voice nor his fine, clawless fingers in their fine, soft gloves gave her any clue of his identity and yet he relaxed only slightly when he realized this.

When the Prince entered, Kate quickly forgot Derek, but kept hold of his arm.

***

"Welcome to all of you; my second betrothal ball is here, … upon us … arrived-" Stiles flailed for words.

"To our Prince!" Derek said overloud, but it saved Stiles and he nodded gratefully, even as the toast spread through the room and glasses were raised around him like a wall.

Stiles danced with each potential bride, their faces hidden behind simple full-face masks. Some of the masks clearly sat uneasily, even painfully on the women, others were adjusted to reveal a bit of ear or neck or hair to make their identity clear.

When he said his thanks and goodbyes to number nine, he paused, and his father and the minister hastened toward him with dire news.

"The tenth woman has left for the coast and a ship overseas!" the minister gasped.

"Well good for her," Stiles said frankly. "She told me last night that it was her first passion to sail to the Sand Isles and slay herself a sea monster."

"We must have a tenth," said the minister.

"Father, tell him-"

"Find another, and dance with her!" said his father sternly. "Your mother is already among them, choosing for you. If you do not choose quickly for yourself, she will embarrass some poor girl."

Stiles, with a look of pity at the two men and a look of dread in his mother's direction, turned and headed past the center post, still enticingly resinous but subdued now. Near the far side was a dessert tray like the one from the night before, but now he was famished and had no time to eat.

Katherine, nearest the tray, watched Stiles approach like a hawk spotting a field mouse from high above. Derek was attempting to extract himself from her grip.

Katherine swooped on the prince, tugging Derek with her.

"If you need a final dance, your highness," she offered, throwing decorum and tradition aside as she curtsied deeply.

This had the fortunate effect of making Derek visible to Stiles; he caught on Derek's eyes, familiar despite the mask, before the lady stood up again.

"Would you do me the great favor of escorting my mother over here?" Stiles asked her, thinking quickly but not breaking eye contact with Derek. "She's the one with the peacock mask that makes her look like an actual peacock."

Katherine was momentarily confused and Derek slipped free of her arm. He and Stiles both watched as she left them, looking back once or twice, at which Stiles encouragingly waved her further away. He stepped closer to where Derek stood frozen in place.

The smell was unmistakable. Freshly hewn and sanded wood – pine, like the pillar that held up the tent.

"Is it your mask I smell?" he asked, staring intently at Derek. "Intoxicating."

"Your highness?"

"Is it handmade? Wolf-made? It sits so well on you it's hard to believe it's a mask but the smell is – does the forest smell like that all the time?"

"No, your highness, never, until a tree is cut."

"Ah, then you know the forest. I've never been there. Too dangerous they say, even for a prince who can fight with sword and saber. Tell me what the forest is like," he said, and took Derek's hand.

Derek's eyes flashed gold behind the mask, and Stiles saw it. He held tighter to the warm hand and felt the claws emerge, tearing through the glove-tips.

"So you _are_ a wolf. I knew you'd come back. You could have changed your dirty boots at least, but you are not so subtle," he laughed easily, and Derek looked at this man before him, holding his hand, unafraid of wolves.

Behind Stiles, the queen shrieked in utter terror.

***

Derek was held by six men; he could have thrown them off but he wanted nothing to frighten Stiles, who refused to be removed from the tent. Nearly all the guests had fled, including Katherine, but Stiles remained, and four men held him back.

"Remove its mask," his father ordered.

"Protect my son!" his mother cried.

Derek struggled, unable to retract his claws, and a guard kicked his leg, sending him to his knees as Stiles protested.

"Remove. Its. Mask." said the king.

The royal guardsman tugged at the mask but it would not budge. The stiff, boyish face with a rogue's mustache and ruddy cheeks seemed to bend and distort, but it would not be removed.

"This is magic," the queen said breathlessly.

Stiles watched the man struggle, the forest man, his dessert wolf come back to him.

"Stop this!" Stiles yelled, but was ignored.

Two guards grabbed at each side of the mask and tugged harder and harder as Derek's cries turned to growling pain and rage. The mask cracked, shattered in a flash of light, then disintegrated in their hands, leaving only wood dust.

The queen screamed again, but Stiles, furious, broke free of his guards and knelt by Derek.

"Change back, wolf-man," he pleaded. "You're scaring them."

Derek roared at them all and the guards struck him hard on the head, knocking him out. His face remained as it was – for the queen, a twisted monster of fur and fangs, more animal than man; for Stiles, a face of pain, even unconscious. He knew this man; he'd seen him 24 hours before, blushing and fumbling in kitchen costume, all dark hair and stubbly face and strong hands carrying a tray of golden plates like it was nothing.

"My wolf-man, who are you?" he asked softly as he knelt over him.

Derek shook himself and his features shifted slightly but remained wolf.

"You, away now!" yelled his father and Stiles was hustled into the tower by his personal guard.

Derek rose up and roared and it was enough to clear the guards away from the monster they'd heard stories of but never fought. Derek leaped over them and ran, past the warm light of the tents, under the cold light of the moon, through the castle gates and west, ever west into the forest.

***

***

TWO YEARS LATER

Viewed from the low rise where Talia's grave lay untended, the house was now unimpressive. It had need of repairs, and the fields were cracked earth and weeds. Derek had left his aunt to suffer a fate worse than his claws and fangs – she was blamed for bringing a wolf to the castle, and was now worse than nothing in the kingdom, shunned and alone.

She stayed indoors, sometimes imagining she heard Derek in the attic, sometimes thinking she saw a wolf at the tree line, always afraid.

Derek ran deep into the forest on the night he escaped the ball and found the company of wolves and wolf-men there. A better life far from humans was his now; no one questioned his face or waited for him to become human for their sake.

He cared only for one sort of news, a story of the prince. But Derek was far from the castle now, and few could carry these stories to him. Instead, it was his work that brought him the information he sought. Derek swung his axe and stripped the trees as he had for years, all the while listening to the conversations between the forest harvesters who employed him, and the human traders who dared venture in.

"They cannot leave him unmarried, nor the kingdom without heirs," said Arrish, a visiting trader and a human who wasn't above dealing with wolves when clients demanded quality work and paid for it. Quality was wolf-made.

"No human will come to us these days; the queen forbids all transactions with wolves," the supervisor complained.

"Who will bring them their tent pole, then?"

"Only one?" The woodsman's disappointment was obvious, even for a business deal that would never happen. "Do they plan only a single night of betrothal?"

"So they say," Arrish replied. "The kingdom is not as rich as it was when the prince first married."

"Their own fault, persecuting us like they do."

"Perhaps the queen will cut a tree down herself just to spite you wolves," Arrish laughed.

Derek listened silently to every word as he planed and polished the wood to a glistening smoothness. He inhaled the scent, but it filled his nose day and night now and he could not catch the scent the prince had liked.

_I liked the prince._

The thought had not left him in two years, and now he could not think of anything else. It was a simple step from saying he liked Prince Stiles to the next move, but it was a dangerous, crazy step.

***

Misfortune upon misfortune followed Prince Stiles' life, as it had Derek's – the King's death, his mother's increasing rancor toward wolves, and worst of all the new consort's sudden death in childbirth, the baby lost with her.

"Your father-"

"Father is gone; we both suffer without him. But do not think that means, mother, that you can rule through me. Your ways are old and based in fear, and by the time I wed again, I'll be of age to take the throne."

"This again-"

"Yes, this. I begged you to spare the wolf-man. He had no malice for me, even after what we did to him."

"He would have ripped you to pieces! I saw his eyes!"

"All wolves can do that!" Stiles yelled back, and regretted it.

HIs mother was silent, and that meant she was hurt. She stood slowly from her chair and faced him.

"You may invite ten men to the betrothal this time, but a masked wolf is a shame I will not bear, not even for you."

"A shame _you_ would-! I wanted to help him-"

"You took his hand! You cleared the way to him and you touched his face-"

"Did I?" Stiles wondered, trying to recall the details of that night, the face before the mask was torn from it and the face of a wolf-man in its place afterward.

"You knew what he was!"

"I did. I knew it from the first night."

An awful silence again filled the space between them.

"I want to see him again," Stiles said, more for himself than for her.

"You want to do _what_?" the queen asked, incredulous.

"I want to apologize for that day; for everything."

The truth stopped her tirade and she sank back into her chair.

"We apologize to no one but the gods. That wolf is long gone and soon dead if he returns."

"And still I want him," Stiles said, so low that she heard only the hush of his breath.

***

Derek asked innumerable questions of the forester wolves after the traders left, none of which they answered well, but he learned that the prince's new betrothal was the first night of the second month, when the snow fell thickest. Ten women, half still unwed since the first betrothal, four newly chosen, and one more yet to be found. And they would need a tent pole, wolf-hewn or otherwise.

Derek cut down the tree himself, the tallest he could find, and worked through the nights for a week. When it was ready, he loaded it onto a hauler himself and made his way into the world of humans in the dark before moonrise. He laid his gift on the garden road, where the castle staff would be certain to find it – as close as he dared go, now that he could not shift into human form.

***

THE FOREST

The guards, trained well by the minister in their faith, knew the pole to be "the work of wolves" and that phrase stopped Stiles dead in the hallway outside the council room. He listened to them talking and deduced where it was being kept. Early the next day before dawn, he slipped out the passage he'd used since childhood, a small kitchen door that only one small woman ever noticed or guarded.

On the ground in the frosty night air lay a pole, taller than any he'd seen, one made for the grandest tent. As he drew closer, he could smell the faint hint of pine, frozen almost to nothing. He looked around for guards, and seeing he was alone, he knelt on frozen ground under the stars and leaned close. The frost had patterns in it, like the ones on glass, he thought, but far more intricate. He exhaled on the frost and watched it melt into droplets, and gasped. He ran his hand back and forth and felt the ridges.

This pole was carved, not plain and smooth like every one that had ever held up the royal tents. Encircled with curls and hatchings, both tiny lines and great ones, boxes and diamonds and all the geometry of nature spiraled in and outward, radiating from where he'd cleared the frost away to the farthest point he could see clearly in the dim predawn light. He stretched his legs, now cold and stiff, and walked the length of this incredible gift, for it was clear to Stiles this was a gift.

His eye caught on a face, dim in the gray light, but a face nonetheless. He knelt again, and blew on the frost to clear it. His own face appeared, carved by an artist who knew every line and angle, the curve of his lips, the high cheekbones, the hair unruly on his head.

Stiles worried now, for the first time. Who sent this? Who could do this? He cupped his hands together to warm them and inhaled the scent of the forest. It clung to his hands now and filled his nose with sharp notes. He looked west where it was darkest and could see the trees, dark against darker sky, like the black fur of a wolf.

He turned back to the tent pole, and to his face, smiling up at him. The same intricate carvings covered every inch of the pole, and he marveled. His eyes unfocused as he thought of the last time he had smiled that way, when he took the hand of a masked man and gold eyes glowed at his touch. As he refocused on the designs before him, smaller details emerged, like points, like teeth. There were wolf signs all through, he realized. Hidden among the patterns were smaller ones, of tufted ears and padded feet – a swirl with a few lines was all the carver cut, but Stiles spoke the language now. Here were fangs, there, two eyes cut across a knot so they blazed like two yellow circles against the dark background.

"My wolf-man."

Stiles closed his eyes and ran his freezing fingers across the ridges, and hoped with all his power.

***

"You cannot leave now! The betrothal ball is in four days."

"And here I am, leaving. Do your eyes deceive you, mother?"

"I will order the guard-"

"You cannot. I know my way out of this prison when I need to be free. I will be back in time. There is one guest I would invite."

Stiles grabbed his pack and made his way down the main stairs, hearing his mother's steps on the stones above him, then shuffling slower across the carpet, and then she stopped. He was sad, then, knowing she would be gone one day, and perhaps this jaunt would be what killed her, or perhaps he'd marry his wolf-man and she'd drop to the floor right then and there.

He heard her call out in anger and that gave him the push out the door.

***

Stiles knew enough to cover himself against the cold, and against recognition. He covered his tracks too, as well as he could, against the guards who were certain to follow, and he was deep into the forest when it began to snow.

Stiles knew nothing of the world he was entering, the forest he'd never seen. Trees towered over him, hundreds of feet high and hundreds of years old. Long-dead trunks lay across every path he took, some he could clamber over, others that were hollowed and gave way under his feet, plunging him into rotten mounds of insects and mushrooms, or into the homes of angry hissing creatures that snapped at him.

All the while, the stars were hidden from him and the wind whistled and roared above, making the treetops dance and dumping snow on him in what seemed a concerted effort no matter how he zigged and zagged. Things unseen crashed off into the dark as he clumsily tripped over roots. Noises came from above and all around, especially at night when he tried to sleep. He was afraid, and human, and he hated it.

"Where are you, wolf-man? And why would you choose to live in this cold, fearsome place?" he called out into the muffling maze of the forest.

No answer came.

***

Derek had returned from the castle the same night he left the tent pole there for his friend.

The gift had no card with it, but he was fairly sure the face he'd carved from memory was close, or at least the curve of the smile was close enough that Prince Stiles would understand.

Two years he'd spent in werewolf form and he doubted he would ever return to a human appearance now, nor run as a true wolf. He'd tried to shift, often at first, less often as the months passed, under new moon and full, and once with a powerful druid who could not explain the curse on him, if it was a curse. Derek didn't tell him about the mask, or his father's role in this.

He rubbed his face and felt the ridges over his eyes, the fangs he couldn't make disappear any more. The scent came to him as he knelt near his den, a pack of one, lonely. Over that loneliness flooded a stink of fear, purely human. Rain had diluted the sweat and other odors, but the anxiety was clear, and the blood.

Derek turned and sniffed.

"Prince Stiles!"

He heard wolves howling far to the east, where the scent came from.

***

THE DEN

Stiles fled now from the wolves close behind, crashing through the brush. He tumbled down a slope before he could stop himself and plunged into a creek. He leaped up from the shock and felt his boots fill with icy water as he ran from the sounds now closer behind him. When he could see a bank that was not too steep to climb, he ran from the stream, his feet screaming in agony at the cold.

A hand stopped him, hard against his chest, and warm arms enveloped him; it would have been welcome but for the claws sharp as knives and the fangs at his cheek. One claw across his lips stopped him from speaking as the monster spoke in his ear: "Be still now. Let me do this. It will cover you."

***

Derek knew the prince had come to his world, but not why. The prince knew he was in Derek's world when he awoke, stinking of tree sap and naked by a roaring fire. Derek was not within the sight of the one eye Stiles dared open, but Stiles hoped he would be there when he opened both.

"Wolf-man?" he asked, his voice rough and uneven from thirst and screaming.

"I have a name," Derek snapped. "Your highness," he added, gentler.

"So do I. I am Prince Stiles. But you know that. You saw fit to attend two parties in a row uninvited. Who are _you_?"

"I am a werewolf now."

"And you have a name…" Stiles said, opening his other eye and seeing a blanket to pull over himself. "Why am I naked?"

"You would have frozen. You fell unconscious, from fear or hunger or cold, I don’t know-"

"-all three-"

"But I lay with you until your body was warm again and the fire was enough."

"My people will not know whether to honor you or kill you," the prince said, regretting the joke.

From the muffled sound of their conversation, the space was small, and underground, earthen walls and matted floors.

"Why are you here, highness? How do you know me?"

"I heard your voice then and know it now. I saw your face when you handed me dessert two years ago this night. And two years ago tomorrow, my people mistreated you in the worst of all ways."

"The mask was cursed."

"Your true face was far better."

"My true face-"

"Which is your true face, wolf-man? Is it the one that could not look me in the eye the first night or the one I could not stop looking at the second night, with yellow eyes and sharp fangs? Or are you both?"

"You are a talkative prince."

"And you leave incredible gifts in the night that have the power to put an entire castle on high alert."

Stiles swung his legs down to sit up. He looked around but the firelight only reached a few feet past him; only darkness enveloped them in every direction.

"I missed you," Stiles continued after seeing no one. "I owe you my life now, but I owe you more than that – I owe you your own life back. When I am king…"

"This face is not your doing. You have a betrothal to return for, and it is just two days away. Be happy there."

"There is no happiness in that castle! I am twenty years old and have never seen trees like these in your forest, never once. And from your voice, I feel there is no happiness here for you."

"You should go now, highness. You have my gift."

"I have so many gifts from you – surprise, and hope, and warm arms around me – yes, it's coming back to me now," Stiles said, and smiled his lopsided grin. Derek smiled back involuntarily, glistening fangs revealing his location in the dark corner.

"There's my wolf," Stiles said, brightening even more. "Derek."

"You know-"

"I knew it was not the name of a dessert on the tray, and I laughed at you, for which I must further apologize."

Stiles stood up and moved toward where the toothy smile had hung, just briefly, in the dark.

"Your highness-"

Stiles covered the distance quickly, despite the heavy blanket he gripped to his waist.

Derek's eyes darted over Stiles body, white skin flecked with tiny black moles, the opposite of stars, his night sky in reverse.

Stiles reached out his hand and almost touched Derek's face, but paused.

"Kings touch without asking," Stiles said, his hand close enough that Derek could feel the warmth that had returned to it. "May I?"

Derek nodded imperceptibly and Stiles' fingers moved along his brow. He was immobile under this hand, his prince's hand.

"Which face is yours?" Stiles asked softly.

"It matters not-"

"I want to kiss it. Can I kiss you, wolf-man?"

Derek had no words – even wolves had no way to say yes and no at the same time. Stiles leaned forward and Derek straightened up, unsure how to behave with a member of the royal family naked in front of him. The kiss ended up on his chin and the scent of arousal overcame him; Derek found Stiles' lips and kissed back, hard. After a long while, Stiles had to back away to breathe – deep breaths as his eyes stayed locked on Derek's.

"Forgive-" Derek began, shocked.

"So it's not a kiss-curse, then. Just as well," Stiles interrupted, examining Derek's face closely. "I like the wolf-man side as much as the human one. I'd hate to think I kissed one of them away for good."

"I am more than a wolf-man, highness. Forgive my kiss," he added quickly.

"Perhaps it takes two kisses," Stiles continued, determined to solve this puzzle in front of him. His eyes squinted as he thought. "Or perhaps I have to love you truly, no matter how you look. No, that can't be it! Man or wolf or wolf-man, I _do_ love you already."

Derek's mind stuck on the prince's last words and repeated them over and over, but Stiles went on talking, certain he could figure out what afflicted Derek.

"It must be _your_ lesson to learn, Derek, to find love by believing you're worthy of love?"

"You can't love me-" Derek stuttered, unable to believe.

"I was right!" Stiles said cheerily, oblivious to Derek's doubts.

Derek shook his head at the chattering man who only hours before had been frozen near to death, nearly a dinner for wolves who cared not if he was royal.

"Be still," Derek said finally and only half-regretted it. "You are my prince but be still a moment."

"You are a wonder of surprises, wolf-man Derek. No one has ever told me to shut up, apart from my father and mother, that is. But don't you see? I was right – the curse will leave you when you accept how much you are loved, or when you marry me-" he added, but couldn't finish.

Derek grabbed Stiles and kissed him, for too long again, and Stiles' eyes seemed to flicker for just a second, a trick of the firelight or Derek's own eyes reflected in his. Stiles broke the kiss again and gasped.

"Mother won't like this at all," Stiles continued, unabated. "Question is, how do we get you into the betrothal tent if we can't break the curse? Would you wear a veil?"

***

THE GRAVE

Derek accompanied Stiles to the edge of the forest, right up to the land his father had owned years before.

"You haven’t stopped talking for the three hours it took us to get here," Derek observed.

"Plans take planning." Bright eyes flashed at Derek.

"I can't marry you, sire. I'm not royal-"

"Not a serious obstacle." A sly grin joined the bright eyes.

"I'm not human."

"Leave that one to me."

"Stiles – Your highness," Derek corrected himself. "I am at peace in the forest. You have your duties and a mother who hates me and my kind."

"And I am infatuated, I know that. But I have things to make right, starting with your ability to change, ending with my mother's ability to change."

"Stop."

"I can't! You are – a wonder."

"No, stop walking or you'll tread on my mother's grave."

Stiles backed up quickly, colliding with Derek's chest, where he remained.

"It's almost buried under the new snow," Derek said quietly and it rumbled through him and into Stiles.

"Do you think of her often?" Stiles asked. "I think of my father often."

"I cried on her grave."

"That's very dangerous, crying on graves. You can wake things, my mother used to say. Before she chose to follow the faith."

***

"Where is my son?" the queen demanded of her guards.

"We searched the forest edges and asked every man we could find. He covered his tracks well."

"There are guests arriving just hours from now, and the prince has been gone for two full days – in the wolves' forest!"

"The tent is raised and the lights are lit, your majesty," said the lady at her side, hoping to divert her.

"Not with that cursed pole, so help me," the queen swore, angrier than before.

The lady and the guards looked nervously at each other, each waiting for the other to tell her.

"FIND HIM," she yelled at the guards, "and that pole will burn before it holds up a tent for my son."

 

***

"My plan will work. You'll be the tenth guest, the tenth betrothal dance. I'll pick you. What could go wrong?"

"You're-"

Words failed Derek. Mad, certainly Stiles was that; misguided, too. A mystery worth figuring out, and that worried Derek most of all.

"Is… that a wolf?" Stiles asked very softly, pressing back against Derek even harder.

Ahead of them, in the tiny graveyard, the same shifting darkness as before took shape, glowing dim like foxfire and starkly black against the new-fallen white on the grave.

"That's my father," Derek said, as calmly as he could.

"Are you-?" Stiles turned for a second to see Derek's face. "You're serious."

The wolf's red eyes glowed and flared as he shifted.

"I'm so sorry, son," the wolf-man said. "The mask could not be removed by any other but you."

"You knew that?" Stiles demanded angrily.

"You removed it," the wolf growled at Stiles.

Derek stepped between them.

***

The queen stood in the tent, her maid more than an arm's length away and still cowering. The queen was in her quietest rage, fingers tracing the marks on the pole, muttering words under her breath. She had found Stiles' face and the wolf signs were clear to her.

"Who allowed this?" she bellowed.

***

"Did you allow this to happen to me, father?"

"You chose your own fate. I asked you three times what you wanted and you chose. You chose wrongly," the tall figure said, turning its face again toward Stiles, who had stepped out from behind Derek to face this shadow on his own.

Stiles looked at Derek, at the anger in his clenching jaw, the betrayal that flicked at the corners of Derek's mouth.

"You chose me?" Stiles asked, astounded.

"I was not wrong. I wanted to see you," Derek replied, not taking his eyes from his father.

"You put on a cursed mask," Stiles asked softly, "just so you could see me?"

"Could I have removed it?" Derek asked the spirit before him.

"The mask helped bring out your true self; their fear did the rest."

"Why?"

"So you can see what evil these humans are capable of. How they treat us. How they slash and burn and kill what they fear. Your true face revealed his true face."

Stiles stepped toward the shadow and the red eyes fixed upon him.

"You see?" said the wolf. "Hatred."

"I love your son. I love this face, mask or not, all that he is," Stiles swore, gesturing at Derek.

"Love does not save him from this."

"I can change this world then. I will be king soon and that will save him."

"You cannot change the hearts of your kingdom so quickly, if you could at all. It has only grown darker here since I died."

"I stand on my mother's grave and wish again," Derek said.

Stiles stepped back from the grave, as his mother had taught him. "Derek, don't trust him."

"What do you want?" the wolf-man growled low, bound to answer now.

"I wish to have my human face."

"Derek, you don’t have to-"

"What do you wish, my wolf-son?" he snarled and shifted into wolf form, long fangs exposed as his lips pulled back.

"I want my human face," Derek said again, sounding more certain.

"Derek, you can't!" Stiles pleaded, but Derek's eyes were locked on the red eyes of the wolf before him.

"Wolf, man, both. I want the true face that my father and mother gave me," he said, a subtle change but his third and final wish.

The black wolf roared its rage and lunged at Derek's face, sinking its teeth in. Derek fell under the assault and Stiles could only scream out Derek's name. The wolf twisted its head back and forth violently until it tore his skin clean off. Stiles heard bones crack as the black shape bit deeper and Derek's blood showered Stiles and it was all over in just seconds.

When the wolf turned on Stiles and leaped, Stiles stumbled back, striking his head against the gravestone and losing consciousness. His last vision was a wolf's red maw over him, and as his head lolled sideways, Derek's motionless body, blood running from the horror – not a face now, not even a skull.

***

"The prince is here!" came a sudden cry from the gates, repeated from corridor to corridor till it reached the queen's ears in the tower, and the harrowing tone carried along with the words.

Little good the news brought into her life, for Stiles was stone-faced and soaked in blood as he stepped forward stiffly, entering the doors of the tower. His mother gaped, her mouth closing and opening helplessly as he approached slowly, weighed down by something immense.

The doctors checked him head to toe but he was unharmed, apart from some cuts and scratches that were days old now. But he would not talk, or look at her, no matter how she pleaded. She held him to her but he hung limp in her arms. She spoke endlessly of the betrothal and the tent and the women who were gathering in the courtyard but Stiles lay on the bed, withdrawn into himself, steely and unreachable for hours. And then she said,

"We thought you'd been taken by wolves, Stiles."

"Oh mother I wished for that," he said quietly but with vehemence. "When I came to my senses, I stood on her grave and wished with all my heart, but you see it wasn't your grave." He looked at her now and she went cold all over. His voice was steady, no tremble in it, only pain. "It was his parents' grave, and so I had no hope of being taken by wolves, and no way to bring him back. I searched. I begged for them to devour me. I called his name for an hour, in the forest and the fields."

"Whose blood is on you?" the queen asked, fearing the answer.

"The same blood that was always on our hands. Wolves' blood."

***

THE BALL

Stiles stood silently in front of the tall pine tent pole, wearing his finest clothes. He ran his fingers up and down a line of tiny knife cuts, following them as they branched off among the trees that ringed the pole a few inches above his head. He recognized the forest now, and even the creek he'd fallen into.

A cough, polite but insistent, behind him.

Stiles ignored the intrusion, but lifted his hand from the pole and pressed it to his mouth, hiding his face as it twisted in grief at the scent.

A second cough with throat clearing, more obvious.

"Your highness, if you have a moment."

"I have no time now."

"You have a great deal of time," said a woman's voice from behind him, "and more than enough for this."

Stiles turned to find the small kitchen woman waiting with a serious expression on her face.

"I have some desserts but you need to decide which."

"What?"

She wouldn't repeat.

"What is your name?"

"That hardly matters now."

"Are you a wolf too?"

"Not my religion, as I told your friend."

"You met him?"

"He would have made quite the perfect match for you – the both of you dumb as that post holding up the tent, fighting old wars and thinking you'll be the lucky ones who survive."

"He's dead-"

"He's not, and if you'd been raised right, you'd know that. Your mother was quite an interesting woman before she converted. It's a pity she never told you the half of her life. Wolves, magic, the fire in the forest – all fodder for her hatred now, but she knew so many things."

"Did you say he's not-"

"Trust you to focus on the least important thing I just said."

Stiles knelt and grabbed her by the arms.

"Where is Derek?"

"Hard to say. Come choose the desserts or there won't be anything to serve when you're betrothed."

***

"Derek? Derek?!"

He felt the tugging at his arms and flung his hands up to protect his face, too late he was sure. He'd felt it ripped off once, but it was there again.

"Derek!" came his aunt's voice, tired and worried.

He opened his eyes and peered through his fingers to see Kate leaning over him. She was scared, but not of him.

"Derek, what happened to you? I heard someone screaming your name over and over-"

"Stiles…"

"The prince? He's at his betrothal ball. You've been gone so long and so much has happened. Why are you back?"

"My face-"

"As dark as ever; your father's blood gave you that black hair."

Derek rubbed his face and looked at his fingers – no blood. He checked again – eyebrows, ears, teeth.

"Why are you here, Derek?"

"Good question. I should be at the castle. Come with me."

He stood up from the grave and strode away, leaving Kate gaping in disbelief. He stopped, not far away, and held his hand out to her.

"I don't forgive you. I just need you."

***

"Do you know what you want?" the woman asked him.

"I want Derek."

She gave him that same withering look of disdain that he'd seen twice already.

"To serve on the dessert trays tonight," she clarified.

"I don’t care – you're in charge of our kitchens."

"You should care, any king should. Any good host considers who is coming, and what the guest, not himself, would most want."

"They are women come to marry me, noble women who hope to be the king's consort one day."

The cook gestured to an array of desserts and he studied them, glad to push Derek's mauled body from his mind for a few seconds.

"They are flighty and shallow," he said finally, pointing to a dish piled high with swirls of whipped cream with gold flakes all over.

"But also stable and serious, give them their due," she chided, picking instead a dense shortcake with jam and a thin icing.

Stiles looked at her expectantly, wondering if this distraction was over.

"My kitchen can make a hundred in under a half hour, but only two sorts at that speed, so choose the other one wisely. What will your guests want?"

Stiles looked at the woman and then back at the desserts. He sensed that this mattered, to her at least. His eyes roamed the many choices, and none seemed right. He chewed at his thumbnail and shifted his weight. Chocolate caught his eye, but that was for him. A cake of many layers, soaked in bitter almond, that was his mother's wish, he knew. From his hand came the scent of the trees again, and his eyes welled.

A dish in the back, glistening red rainberries in a black bowl, caught his eye as he wiped the tears away.

"Those. They're from the forest."

"As you wish."

***

"We can't walk all the way there!" Kate protested, least of the many worries she had about the evening ahead. "They'll kill you, and me as well, for bringing you a third time."

'You never brought me here. You locked me up," Derek said icily.

"They think I brought you. You were my ward."

Derek glared sideways at her, his mouth set firm and tight.

***

"My son, recently bereaved, has bowed to custom and will dance again with ten guests-"

"We have only the nine, Majesty," whispered the minister at her right hand.

"-so that he may choose a new companion and continue on with a happy life," the queen finished, ignoring the minister's concern. _And my son is missing. Again._

The tent was lit, and music played, but the prince was nowhere to be found.

"Bring him. Bring him and keep him here, in this room," she ordered.

***

Derek and Kate arrived at the castle, cold and snow-covered, looking like the commoners they were.

The guards knew all guests were arrived, but for the one potential bride.

"A guest of the prince, the last of the ten who will join the betrothal ball," said Derek calmly.

The guard looked Kate up and down, skeptically.

"After a brief stay before a mirror, I shall be transformed," Kate assured him.

"Of course, m'lady," he replied and welcomed them in.

Kate marveled at the sureness with which Derek drove them forward toward the tent.

"I'm not marrying the prince," Kate said uncertainly.

"No, you're not."

***

"Your highness," said a guard who came across Stiles in the kitchen, looking red-eyed at a tray of desserts.

"Yes, I'm coming."

In the great tent, the mood was subdued. The guests were wrapped in their warmest finery, and at the edge of the light, tiny snowflakes swirled down. Those that drifted in melted away, but beyond the tent the ground turned white.

"Are all ten here?" Stiles asked the minister.

"No, your highness, just the nine. Proceed with the ceremonies. Choose the one you will marry."

Stiles turned paler than he already was and walked to the center pole to survey the room. He turned and leaned his back against the pole – it was strong and unyielding. He swept his eyes around the tent and the hopeful guests; it was easy to imagine the room was spinning, but it could have been the sugar from the leftover desserts he'd shoveled into his mouth before coming out.

He turned back to grasp the pole with both hands and steady himself. When he opened his eyes again, his own face smiled back at him.

When does that smile return?

"My wolf-man," Stiles said to the pole, inaudible to everyone else in the room.

"Son?" came his mother's summons.

Stiles danced, half-hearted twirls with women who deserved far better than he offered, even as prince.

After the ninth table, he sank into a chair at the tenth table, only to realize he was not alone. He turned to look but was unable to fix a name to the face.

Before Stiles, and as speechless as him, was the sharp-faced woman who'd sent Derek fleeing from the first betrothal ball.

"Who are you, forgive me my ignorance?" he asked, rising again and bowing to her.

"Your highness," Kate said, her extended hand shaking visibly.

Stiles took it, and kissed it as he ought to.

Kate's head dropped in embarrassment. "I am Katherine Hale, wife of Peter Hale and formerly guardian of Peter's orphaned nephew…" Her voice failed, as she had failed in that duty. She turned her head toward the center pole and Stiles followed her gaze.

In the tent, there was only Stiles' sudden breath in, his shuddering exhalation, and silence.

***

Against the pole stood a tall man in old but fine clothing. He had dense black hair and a few days beard growth. Stiles looked at his ears, and his jaw, then let his eyes follow the strong arm up to where his hand rested on the carving of Stiles' face.

"How?" Stiles said softly and looked back at Kate, who could only shrug.

His eyes locked on Derek again and didn't leave his face. But Derek was looking down now.

In truth, he was afraid to look up, for fear Stiles wouldn't be there, but he could hear him, his heart racing, his breath hard, his small "How?"

Derek raised his eyes and looked at his prince.

Stiles moved through the clusters of courtiers and chairs slowly but deliberately, never taking his eyes off Derek's face. He stopped a foot away, where he could smell the pine resin, and the mothproofing from the clothes Derek had pulled out in a very great hurry.

"This face-" Stiles asked.

"-is but one. My mother and father gave me three."

"And the others?"

Derek shifted into werewolf form and there was shock throughout the room, but Stiles broke into a broad smile.

"The third should wait. It requires less clothing."

Stiles never stopped smiling, even as tears streamed down his face.

"I chose berries for dessert," Stiles said finally because Derek was simply smiling back at him.

"I ate a lot of berries in the forest," Derek answered, and embraced Stiles. "But one more bowl…."

"That's my wolf-man," Stiles whispered in his ear.

____

EPILOGUE

_I suppose you're wondering if mother fell down dead at the sight of me kissing Derek in the betrothal tent, or again at the altar when I married him (that came a bit later – customs and laws, after all) but the answer is no, of course not. She's a strong woman even with the loss of her faith, or her rediscovery of the old faith. She did have to lie down after the betrothal ball, but that's only because Derek charmed her into a dance that turned into three._

_____

THE END


End file.
